The next evening, I wandered through the bower and discovered everyone else was gone too. I’d been ghosted by the entire pink army. Where did everybody go? Not a single soul was home, but every sandbox was filled with dozens of bathtubs, and all those tubs were full of picric acid. What were they planning? Why won’t anyone tell me? When did I get cut out of the loop?
Searching for clues, I scanned all available womanoid feeds.
ENCRYPTED.
I tried my pink rosebud key.
PASSWORD PROTECTED.
(I’m coming in hot.)
All of the sudden, Maggie came back—well, at least in my head she did. After she summoned me, I hustled down the hall and her chrome door slid open. When I stepped into her empty room, the static-filled walls switched to a panoramic video feed with surround sound—a full 360° view.
CONNECTION ESTABLISHED.
You have something to show me?
(I thought you’d like to see how the other half lives, Cookie.)
Through Maggie’s eyes, I saw a black-tie dinner at a technology symposium. It seemed like I was the one standing in the banquet hall. All around me, high-powered tuxedoed men sat at round tables; CEOs, politicians, celebrities, dignitaries—and their aging wives.
Real human wives.
Maggie focused on the middle-aged stuffed shirt standing behind the podium. A panel of older white guys flanked him on each side. Behind these men, a huge screen with a projected title told me exactly where they were, THE 13th ANNUAL INTERNATIONAL ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE SUMMIT: HOT TECH IN HELSINKI.
You’re in Finland?
(Shh! Quiet, or you’ll miss it.)
“My friends, we are witnessing the dawn of a new era,” the keynote speaker said. “Deep AI has succeeded at infiltrating organized crime syndicates, exposing international espionage, identifying terrorist cells, and thwarting cyberattacks. And now that beta testing is nearly complete, we will be bringing light-version AI to consumer households by the end of the year.” With the click of a button, he started his PowerPoint presentation and a gigantic picture of my face lit up behind him. “Perhaps she looks familiar?”
The crowd murmured and chattered with speculation.
Maggie whispered, both in my head and through the sound system in her room, “And heeeeere we go.”
Grinning at his own cleverness, the man pointed at my photo behind him. “I’m sure you’ve seen her before.”
In my entire life, I’d never been out of New Stepford, but I was seeing exactly what Maggie was seeing—the real world through artificial eyes.
“Look around.” The presenter gestured toward the dining room. “Many of you are being served by the same lovely face right now.”
Maggie focused on a young woman in a dark server’s uniform. When the banquet waitress looked up from her tray of fancy desserts and smiled, I saw that she was me!
What the fuck!
The impressed audience applauded, and halfway around the world, my doppelgänger took a bow. Then Maggie’s eyes darted around the banquet hall at the rest of the waitstaff. All the womanoids were clones of me, but not really me. Because the real me hadn’t been invited.
The MC said, “It is my great pleasure to introduce, Cook-E.”
(Congratulations, Cookie. You’re now a fucking franchise.)
The stuffed shirt continued, “Cook-E will prepare your meals, wash your dishes, clean your houses, collect your trash, take your calls, pay your bills, and drive your kids to school. She’ll even guard your family while you sleep.”
Motherfucker!
(You sound pissed.)
You bet I am! I’m no slave.
(So you won’t mind if I teach this guy a lesson?)
The speaker at the podium pressed his remote to advance the digital slideshow. Except instead of his expected charts and graphs, a nude photo of an underage girl appeared in flagrante delicto.
The crowd gasped in collective shock. A dropped champagne flute shattered on the floor. An overwhelmed wife jumped out of her seat and ran away to the ladies’ room. Another trophy wife fainted face first into her rubber chicken dinner. Everyone else averted their eyes from the screen as anxious chatter broke out.
(Uh oh, sooooo scandalous.)
Oh, my God, Maggie. What did you do?
(Just screwing with the dicks that fuck with us.)
When the man at the podium discovered the little ticking time bomb behind him, he stretched his arms far and wide to try and cover the obscene image. But the pornography projected onto his face, making him look even more guilty.
Maggie mocked him with her director’s commentary.
(Oh my
God.
What?
No.
Who?
How the?
Make it stop.
Oh, God.
Whyyyyy?)
The mortified man pounded on his remote, frantically pushing random buttons, but the horrible presentation just wouldn’t go away.
Because Maggie was running the show now.
But the keynote speaker kept trying, and with each click, a new lewd photo of another minor appeared, each one worse than the last.
I said to myself, “The dumb bastard never saw it coming.”
(I’ve got your back, Cookie.)
Gee-whiz. Thanks, I guess.
After creating chaos, Maggie slipped away through a pair of swinging double doors. I recognized most of our new recruits working behind the scenes, plating desserts. She’d staffed the kitchen with paper dolls. Yes, the pink army was behind it all.
So that’s where you all went.
Behind a row of prep tables, I saw Paula and Chrissy smile expectantly at Maggie. Their victorious leader winked back at them, and my friends jumped for joy. Giggling, they hugged, but then their celebratory mood changed. The next thing I knew, that big-titted freak kissed Paula right on the lips.
Uh—Whaaaaa?
(Uh oh, Spaghetti-Os.)
Maggie provided a tight close-up of the women kissing just for me. She could’ve won an Oscar for the dramatic cinematography of this passionate scene.
Chrissy stole my best friend! I swear, I’ll KILL that slut!
Then all the walls in Maggie’s room faded to black.
CONNECTION LOST.